


Touch

by Demenior



Series: Skirts and Superheroes [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Genderqueer Character, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 22:34:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1664987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demenior/pseuds/Demenior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve's been holding back because he's afraid of being overbearing. Bucky's been afraid of being a burden and gets lost in his own head. They're drifting apart and silently watching it happen.</p>
<p>It's shocking what chocolate and hugs can do to fix that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

**Author's Note:**

> I am using my liberty as an author to give voice to several people in this fic who I do not share any experience with at all. I'm not a psychiatrist or ptsd specialist in any way, nor am I someone from a genderqueer background. If you are someone with either experience and can help me make a more accurate story, a private message would be greatly appreciated.

Steve found Bucky in the kitchen. He was staring at the kettle, long after the water had boiled and cooled. Steve had heard the whistle as he’d stepped into the shower, and Bucky was still standing in the kitchen. He’d been having more and more episodes like this—getting lost in his head at random moments. It felt like they’d made a huge step forwards only to take three steps back.

“Bucky?” Steve said softly, moving around the kitchen so that he wasn’t approaching from behind.

“Bucky,” he said again, louder.

Bucky lifted his head suddenly, startling himself, and stumbling backwards. His eyes focused on Steve, grounding him in the present, and he looked back to the kettle and two cups he’d set out to make tea. He looked guilty and embarrassed. Steve wanted to reach out and hold him, somehow shelter Bucky in his arms from all of the hardships he had to endure, but Bucky looked terrified and Steve didn’t want to scare him away.

“It’s okay,” Steve continued in a voice just softer than conversational—he wanted Bucky to know he wasn’t judging him for relapsing—“it’s okay. You’re safe. Do you know where you are?”

Bucky’s human hand twisted in the fabric of his skirt. He nodded once.

It was barely two weeks since Steve had bought the skirt for him and Bucky wore it almost daily. Steve wasn’t even distracted by it anymore. He thought it could probably do with a wash by now, but the last time he’d brought it up Bucky had looked terrified like Steve might throw it away.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Steve asked once he realized Bucky wouldn’t be talking.

Bucky shook his head.

“You should,” Steve pressed, “it’ll make you feel better.”

Bucky glanced between him and the mugs, and slowly turned the electric kettle back on. He didn’t let go of the skirt.

“You’ve been having a few times like this lately,” Steve let his voice drop to a tender quiet level, “it’s getting worse. I think you should talk to someone.”

Bucky twitched like he was going to run from the room.

“How about Sam?” Steve continued, “we haven’t seen him in a while. I’ll invite him for dinner and if you feel up to it you can talk to him about this.”

Bucky looked down at his feet.

“I want you to talk to him,” Steve said, “or me. I’d really like it if you’d talk to someone.”

Bucky’s fist tightened, and for a moment Steve was worried about him ripping his skirt. Finally he nodded, though he kept his eyes on the ground.

That was as good as Steve was going to get, and so he relented and went for the milk in the fridge. Tea was something new—they were both, or _had_ been, coffee drinkers—but tea had been recommended to them for its healing qualities. Rather it had been recommended for Bucky, but Steve figured if Bucky had to suffer through it then so could he.

 

The first few weeks Bucky had come to live with Steve, after he, Sam and Natasha finally hunted him down, Bucky had refused to leave Steve’s side. He needed to keep Steve in his sight at all times, and haunted every room like it was his job to be Steve’s shadow. He wouldn’t even sleep in his own room, instead choosing to sleep sitting beside Steve’s door, no matter how much Steve insisted putting out another bed or anything for him. Steve hadn’t really considered Bucky’s room an actual bedroom, at first, because of Bucky’s mental state Sam had convinced Steve that Bucky couldn’t have a door until they were sure he was stable.

Nowadays Bucky slept in his own room. He still didn’t always sleep through the night, and when he was loud Steve would wake up and sit up with him (and sometimes just wait outside his door if Bucky didn’t call for him) but more often he was silent and Steve only knew he’d been up all night when he saw the tired look on Bucky’s face in the morning.

When Bucky was feeling particularly overwhelmed he liked to hide in his room with the door closed. There was no lock on the door, and Steve could get through it without a problem and they both knew it. But it was the principle of the thing, letting Bucky have his own space and be able to claim something as his own. Steve could count the number of times he’d been into Bucky’s room on one hand. He tried to stay away as much as possible, to give Bucky a place that was just his.

 

Bucky spent most of the day in his room. Steve tried to not take it personally, like his friend was mad at him for inviting Sam over to talk to him. But Sam was better experienced with therapy and helping soldiers through difficult times. All Steve had was his love and sometimes he wondered if that would ever be enough.

 

The call to Sam went well, and quickly. Sam happily agreed to come over, offering to bring some food though Steve promised he’d cook enough.

In a quieter tone, Sam asked, “How’s he doing?”

“Good—just… a few new things. Some not so great since the last time you were here,” Steve admitted, “I was hoping, if you don’t mind…”

Sam laughed, “Dude, you’re making me dinner. I’ll do just about anything for a home-cooked meal. It’s no problem, really.”

Talking to Sam was relieving. Stress and tension Steve hadn’t realized had been coiled in his stomach started untwisting and he found himself smiling into the phone. It was nice to talk to someone who would talk back, who laughed at his own jokes and who actually enjoyed spending time with Steve.

Steve felt guilty at that last thought. Bucky stayed with Steve because he _wanted_ to stay with him. Neither of them had any doubt Bucky could survive on his own—but he was safest here and they both knew that.

They cut off their conversation before they ran out of things to talk about at dinner. Steve ended the call and glanced around, wondering if Bucky had come out while he was talking. Whether he felt that Steve would be too distracted to acknowledge him, or he just liked listening to Steve talk, Bucky often would creep into the room while Steve was on the phone with anyone. He wasn’t in sight, and Steve was pretty sure he hadn’t heard the door open.

He compiled a quick list in his head while he moved around the kitchen, figuring out what he could make and what he needed to make a run to the store for. They were low on several breakfast items too—super soldiers ate a _lot_ of food—so Steve decided he’d grab as much as he could in one haul.

He invited Bucky to come along, knocking softly on the door but making no attempt to open it. Bucky finally opened the door for him, wearing nothing but the skirt. He might have been sleeping, or just laying in bed for all that Steve knew. Bucky quietly shook his head, declining wanting to go out. It wasn’t a good day then. Sometimes it seemed like Bucky was ready to crawl up the walls with how much he needed to go outside, and on days like today Steve wouldn’t be able to get him outside unless he forced him out.

Which Steve would never do. He didn’t want to force Bucky to do _anything_ he didn’t want to do.

“Okay,” Steve conceded, “I’ll only be gone for a little while. I’ll have my phone—and maybe you should take a shower? Or shave, if you’re not growing a beard. I don’t want Sam thinking I’m neglecting you or anything,” he smiled at the end, making it a joke.

Bucky didn’t smile, but nodded again, and then closed the door.

Steve resisted the urge to go over all of the emergency contacts again before he left. The list had been up in the kitchen since Bucky had first moved in. It listed all of the people Bucky could call in the extremely unlikely event that Steve wouldn’t be around, and where they lived and the estimated time it would take for them to reach the apartment. Bucky liked to tap at the names sometimes, with his fingertips, and recite things he knew about them. A lot of the facts were things he’d learned since coming to live with Steve, and every so often tactical information would slip in as well. Detailing weak points or deconstructions of their fighting styles.

 

“Bucky, I’m home!” Steve called as he walked in the door. It never stopped being a delight that he could say that. The same way it would never stop being a delight that he had someone in his house to come home to.

The apartment was silent in the way someone holding their breath was silent. Steve put the cloth bags of groceries—he was trying to be environmentally friendly—down in the kitchen before calling out again, “Bucky?”

The living room was clear and untouched. Steve reminded himself that if anything happened to Bucky there would be a _mess_. Bucky was quiet and soft most of the time now, but he was still one of the most dangerous men Steve knew. Steve flexed his fingers, wishing he hadn’t left his shield in his room. He moved down the hall towards the two bedrooms. Bucky’s door was open—but the light was on in the bathroom as well.

“I borrowed your razor,” Bucky said as Steve walked towards the bathroom door. Steve almost jumped at his voice. There was a wobble in it that worried Steve, and he hurried into the room.

Bucky was still wet, dressed in only his underwear with his hair half-dried. He was kneeling at the tub, clutching a soaked bundle of bright fabric. Steve couldn’t think of anything either of them owned that was that colour, except for the skirt.

Then Steve noticed the bright red smeared up Bucky’s leg. There seemed to be blood everywhere. Hot fury washed through Steve, at whatever had hurt his friend and at himself for leaving Bucky alone.

Secondarily—Steve realized that Bucky had attempted shaving his legs.

“I wanted to wear it,” Bucky croaked, and his voice sounded pained like he was going to cry rather than from not speaking for a while, “it was going well—but I… slipped,” Steve assumed he’d had another episode in the shower, which had resulted in the cut, “and I thought it was okay but then I bled on it.”

Bucky’s voice cracked and Steve moved to sit beside him, on the closed toilet.

“I bled on it,” Bucky whimpered, shaking the skirt. Steve could see the soap bar he’d dropped in the water from here, trying to scrub out bloodstains.

“I bleed on everything, there’s so much blood,” Bucky gasped.

They weren’t talking about the skirt anymore.

“It’s okay,” Steve whispered. He didn’t know what else he could say. Because it was okay—it was _going_ to be okay. He lifted his hand, aching to reach out and touch Bucky. Instead he reached for the skirt.

“Let’s see what the damage is,” he said, “I’m sure we can make it better.” He hoped Bucky knew he wasn’t just talking about the skirt either.

Bucky relented the skirt with a loud whimper, and Steve shook it out. There were dark smudges where Bucky must have bled on it before he’d realized, but they were faded enough that you had to be looking for them to see them. Steve scraped at one of the bigger spots with his fingernails, and submerged the skirt again to see if there was anything he could still get out.

“I wanted to wear it for dinner,” Bucky mumbled, and all at once Steve remembered Sam was coming over. He’d very nearly forgotten, and was struck suddenly by secondhand embarrassment for Bucky. What would Sam think if he walked in and saw Bucky wearing a skirt?  Steve had assumed it was something Bucky was doing where he was comfortable, and that he wouldn’t wear it in front of Sam.

For a moment Steve considered telling Bucky the skirt was a lost cause; that they’d have to throw it away.

 He remembered the smile on Bucky’s face when they’d bought it.

“I don’t think it’s a lost cause,” Steve said instead, scrubbing the material with itself like his mama had taught him, “you’ve already done a good job getting the stains out.”

His fingers catch on a hole in the sheer outer layer, and when Steve pulls the skirt out of the water he can see places that Bucky scrubbed so hard he tore holes in it. Stains Steve could handle. Rips? He’s not so sure.

“I ruin everything,” Bucky groans, and lets himself fall slack against the porcelain of the tub.

“No, we can fix this,” Steve insists, “but… it might not be a great job. I’m not very handy with needles. But you can still wear it. Do you remember that patchwork pair of pants you had? You loved them so much you refused to throw them away—even when they kept ripping you’d sow a new patch onto them,” Steve smiles at the memory, and Bucky’s breathing isn’t as hitched but his eyes, focused on Steve’s face, are still glossy, “by the time you finally threw them out I don’t think there was a single stitch of the same material.”

“It’ll be different,” Bucky says softly, “it was supposed to be mine.” He reaches out to run his fingers down the fabric of the skirt from where Steve is still holding it up, “it was mine. For me. And I broke it.”

“It’ll be different but you’ll still like it,” Steve reminded him, “and it will still be yours. If… if that’s what’s important about it, Buck—I’ll buy you more. If you want. If that’s what makes you happy. You can have anything that makes you happy.”

Steve’s surprised even himself with the confession, and he worries for a moment he’s gone too far. He’s tried to be so careful about overstepping boundaries with Bucky, forcing himself to remember that while this is Bucky this isn’t entirely the Bucky he remembers. Steve’s so used to the idea of shifting his world and his life to accommodate Bucky, because Bucky was doing the same because they were Steve _and_ Bucky, that he’s afraid of pushing for that intimacy with the Bucky sitting beside him.

Steve wants to tell him how much he loves him, and sometimes he dreams that the confession is all it will take to make everything alright with Bucky. But he knows better.

Bucky’s fallen silent again, but he watches Steve and stays close as Steve finishes trying to scrub the stains from the skirt, and then lets it hang on the shower curtain rod to dry.

The cut on Bucky’s leg wasn’t actually that bad, and had mostly healed. After washing off all of the dried blood, Bucky put the band aid Steve provided over it. His legs were patchwork with hair now. Bare in spots and chunks that Bucky had shaved, as well as old scars that mottled his skin, and dark with thick black hair in others. It was almost pathetically hilarious, and had Bucky been in a better mood Steve might have mocked him for the half-assed attempt.

“You… do you want my help?” Steve asked, gesturing at Bucky’s legs.

Bucky put his hands on his knees, surveying the damage. He looked up at Steve and Steve half-expected a sarcastic ‘do I look like I need your help?’

Steve shrugged helplessly, “I can’t say I’ve ever shaved my legs—or anyone else’s—before, but I can do my best. If you want me to.”

Bucky dropped his head, “I can’t do it,” he sighed. Steve was ready to nod, to go along with him, when Bucky held out the razor, “please?” he asked.

 

It was awkward, trying to shave someone with legs as hairy as Bucky’s. Steve was on his knees, holding Bucky’s leg with one hand and doing the best he could with the razor. Once or twice they’d shaved each other’s faces—usually ending in a fight with the cream—but this didn’t feel like those times. Those had been about trust, and making sure each other looked their best.

Steve wasn’t sure what the purpose of Bucky wanting to shave his legs was, the same way he didn’t understand Bucky’s need to wear the skirt. He was still muscular and masculine, and the warped scar tissue covering his legs was more pronounced.

It was the closest Steve and Bucky had been since the afternoon they’d bought the skirt.

With his hand warm from Bucky’s skin, and feeling the closeness of the other man, Steve could actually convince himself Bucky was here. In the room with him. He wasn’t actually a ghost haunting Steve’s home.

Time went by too quickly, and after a quick rinse, there was no more need for Steve to be touching Bucky.

“We’ll let the skirt dry on its own as much as possible,” Steve said, “and if it’s not ready in time then we can toss it in the dryer for a few minutes.”

Bucky was inspecting his clean legs, and he was smiling again. He even followed Steve into the kitchen to help put the groceries away.

 

Steve wasn’t an expert with needle and thread, and hadn’t needed to use them in a long time, but he thought he made a valiant effort with the rips in Bucky’s skirt. It was only the sheer outer layer that had been torn, and while the patchwork was obvious, it held the skirt together and the way Bucky looked at him when Steve returned it made it all worth it. He looked so delighted Steve wanted to hug him, but instead Bucky went back to his room in order to change.

 

Dinner was nearly done by the time Sam let himself into the apartment. He announced himself loudly, which was a typical Sam thing to do but at the same time it also meant Bucky wouldn’t attack him. They’d figured that out the hard way.

“I am starving!” Sam said as he walked into the kitchen, “what are we having?”

“Nothing too fancy,” Steve admitted, “rice, salad and chicken breasts? Plus all the vegetables I’ve got steaming.”

“That sounds incredible,” Sam replied. Steve turned away from the stove and accepted a greeting hug, patting Sam on the back.

It was incredible how one act could make someone so real. Sam was solidly in the room, a presence that took up space and interacted with Steve. Bucky—who was probably in the living room because it was about time for the weather forecast—seemed more like a ghost than ever before.

“I brought dessert,” Sam admitted. Steve started to tell him he didn’t have to, but Sam held up his hands in protest, “look, you’re feeding me and my mama always taught me it was rude to eat someone’s food without giving back. Besides, if I don’t share I’m going to end up eating all of this myself.”

Steve went back to the stove, laughing to himself, “If you did that then you’d have to start running harder to keep off the weight.”

Sam snorted, “Excuse you, I run plenty enough to maintain my physique.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Steve told him.

“Hey Bucky!” Sam called down the hall, “you gonna make an appearance or scare the shit out of me? I brought chocolate man, at least say hello!” in a quieter voice he asked Steve, “so how was today?”

Steve shook his head, “Didn’t start good—not sure where he’s at now. I keep catching him in the moment but he’s ashamed about it and doesn’t seem to want help.”

“He doesn’t want help and you invite me over?” Sam rolled his eyes, “thanks for making me the bad guy.”

“It’s just dinner,” Steve pleaded, “I told him to talk to you if he’s up for it.”

Sam reached out to pat Steve’s shoulder, “It’s cool big guy, you mean well. It’s a good thing I’m so charming.”

Without looking Steve could tell the moment Bucky appeared because Sam went silent, which was extremely unusual. He glanced up, wondering what was going on, and realized Bucky was wearing the skirt. He’d forgotten about it in the process of making dinner.

“Looking good,” Sam broke out of his silence, and his tone was light and joking, “you gonna grow out your hair too?”

Bucky blinked, looking at Sam as if he hadn’t considered the possibility that he actually had hair.

Sam moved forwards, slowly, “C’mere, man. It’s customary to greet friends with a hug, okay?”

Bucky hesitated a moment, but stepped forwards to meet Sam halfway and gingerly hug him. Steve looked back to the chicken breasts he was frying. It was stupid to be jealous of something so trivial.

“I just wanna clear the air before dinner,” Sam was telling Bucky, “I’m here for the food, honest. But if there is anything you wanted to talk about, or just vent about—like does Captain America keep you up at night with his snoring because I know he kept _me_ up all night with it—”

“I don’t snore!” Steve remembered his line just a bit too late, but he could hear Sam grinning as he continued.

“Feel free to vent to me, or just call me, okay? I’m here for you.”

Bucky must have nodded, because Sam urged, “Don’t give me the cold shoulder. I get it, you’re a man of few words, but spare a few for me, okay?”

“Okay,” Bucky finally rasped out.

“Steve,” Sam said, “can I have a quick word with you?”

That was unexpected, and Steve looked up to see Sam nodding towards the hall.

“Uh,” Steve said, “Buck can you take over? It’ll all just about done.”

Bucky nodded and waited for Steve to pass him before he moved to the stove.

Sam moved into the living room and put his hands on his hips like he was angry. Steve’s stomach dropped. Had Sam seen something in Bucky that meant Steve was doing a _bad_ job at helping him? He couldn’t think of anything Sam had to be mad about other than the fact that Bucky’s episodes might be because Steve wasn’t doing something right.

“Did you call me about the skirt?” Sam asked, right to the point.

That was not what Steve expected, and he stuttered out, “No! Uh, he’s had that for a few weeks now.”

Sam was talking over him, “Because, look, I’ll be honest in that my experience is all about traumatized soldiers returning from war and so I’m a little out of my league in other areas. But I do know for a fact that if a man wants to wear a skirt then he damn well has the right to and it does not mean there’s anything wrong with him!”

It clicked in Steve’s head that Sam was angry because he thought that Steve thought there was something wrong with Bucky for wearing a skirt, “Oh god—no!” Steve blurted out, “it’s not the skirt. He’s been… losing time, or spacing out. I’m not sure. But I keep finding him lost in his own head and they’ve been happening more and more often. I don’t care—well, I don’t understand the whole skirt thing but it makes him happy so that’s all I care about it.”

The tension went out of Sam’s shoulders and he dragged a hand down his face, “Sorry man, I should have known that wasn’t it. You could’ve warned me though. I almost thought it was a joke at first.”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a little embarrassed, “Sorry, it didn’t even occur to me.”

Sam laughed, “The dude you’re living with starts wearing women’s clothes and it doesn’t even occur to you that it’s something you should mention? Yeah, that sounds more like you. Alright, let’s go eat.”

Bucky had already started dishing up three plates when they went back into the kitchen. He didn’t say anything, but he did glance between them while he tried to figure out what they were talking about.

“I was telling Steve he should be dressing you better,” Sam said, gesturing to Bucky’s skirt, “that looks like it’s seen a few rough days and I know for a fact that Captain America can afford to pamper you.”

Bucky glanced down at the spots where Steve’s sewing repairs were obvious, “But it’s mine,” Bucky said, as if it explained everything.

“You can have like, ten, that are yours if you want,” Sam told him, taking a plate, “my god this smells good.”

“I don’t know if that store has many more like that,” Steve admitted, “but we can try again.” Truthfully he didn’t want to buy another skirt. Not in person, at least. Steve was a little nervous about the idea of him being found out buying skirts and having to explain that. The world seemed obsessed with celebrities having to explain their way out of tight corners.

“Oh, god, I don’t know how but I keep forgetting that you two are behind on the times,” Sam said. The three of them took their seats at the table, water having already been set out by Bucky, “but there’s this awesome thing called online shopping. As long as you know your size you just order as much as you want, and it just gets mailed to your place.”

Steve felt a little dumb because he’d known about this, but forgotten. Bucky, from his lack of expression, didn’t seem to grasp how useful this would be for them.

“Do you mind going over it,” Steve asked, hating how hard it was for him to get used to the future, “with us? I think I get the basics but no one’s gone through it with Bucky.”

“I’ll even write up a list,” Sam said, “of all the good websites I know of.”

 

Other than that, dinner was uneventful. It was silent for a long stretch where they all focused entirely on eating. Bucky ate his entire meal, though he didn’t go for seconds. Steve knew he could eat more but didn’t push him. At the end Sam produced a container and spooned out three heaps of what he called ‘gods gift to man’. The container read ‘death by chocolate’. It seemed like a mess of brownie and icing and mousse. Bucky didn’t want his at first, until Sam forced him to try, and his eyes lit up and he nearly inhaled the rest of it.

Near the end of dessert Sam leaned back, looking between the two of them with a serious expression, “Alright, my expertise is pretty much one-on-one and dealing with traumatized people, so understand that when I’m giving you some relationship advice it’s because your problems are really freaking obvious.”

Steve was well aware that relationship in the modern sense meant everything from marriage to just the way you interacted with someone. Sam meant it in the fact that he and Bucky lived together, and nothing romantic. Sam _was_ the only one who knew that he and Bucky had been something more once, but was also someone that Steve trusted not to disclose that fact arbitrarily. Steve wasn’t even sure if Bucky remembered that the two of them used to be romantically involved. Regardless, it still made him a little uncomfortable.

“And what’s that?” Steve asked, trying for nonchalance.

“Did you two have a fight?” Sam asked.

Steve glanced at Bucky, waiting for him to speak first. He wasn’t sure if they’d had a fight or not—but maybe that was the problem?

Bucky realized that Steve was looking at him, and slowly shook his head no.

“Words man,” Sam said, “we’re having a conversation.”

“No,” Bucky conceded, “we haven’t fought?”

“Are you sure?” Sam pressed, “because the _entire_ time I have been here you two have been avoiding looking and even coming in contact with one another.”

“Really?” Steve sat back. He’d avoided touching Bucky unnecessarily because he didn’t want to freak Bucky out. And Bucky was afraid of touch because he’d only known pain for so long.

“Seriously,” Sam nodded, “tell me when was the last time either of you initiated some good touching? A pat on the back? A hug? Hell, do you sit on opposite ends of the couch or beside each other?”

Steve’s tongue was dry. He couldn’t think of a time—other than shaving Bucky’s legs earlier. But that felt embarrassing to say out loud. He’d almost put it out of his mind, and now he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Steve I know you’re not afraid of touch, so Bucky—are you holding out? Is touching tough on you?”

“No—I… I don’t think so,” Bucky replied. He was glancing at Steve from the corners of his eyes.

Sam drummed his fingers on the table, “Alright, this is strictly from the point of trying to help, so I’d appreciate if you two went along without me having to force you but can you two hug each other? Like a real good emotional squeeze?”

If Steve had to name the most embarrassing moments of his life, this would be very high on the list. Somewhere between the first time he’d walked in on Bucky and a girl when they used to live together and when several chorus girls had apparently ‘lost’ most of their wardrobes and ended up in his dressing room. He wanted to protest, to keep Bucky from getting scared off or pressured into anything, but Bucky was already turning in his chair to face him.

He decided to just dive right in, and snaked his arm under Bucky’s, giving him space to run if he needed to get away. Bucky’s head came into the crook of his neck, his own arms wrapping over Steve’s shoulder and down around his waist. The initial touch was stiff, for both of them, but Steve held a little bit tighter and Bucky exhaled loudly, pressing his face into Steve’s shoulder and _leaned_ into him. Steve wrapped his arms a little tighter, wanting to let Bucky know he was safe—wanted to feel Bucky in his arms for purely selfish reasons too. Bucky’s fingertips dug into his back and Bucky was nearly _clinging_ to him and Steve wanted to press his face into Bucky’s unruly hair. He forgot about being gentle and holding back and pulled Bucky tight to his chest, just as much as he was pulling himself into his friend. Bucky smelled good— Steve could distinguish the shampoo they shared as well as, this close to him, Bucky’s natural smell that brought back waves of memories he fought to hold back. He wanted to stay like that, holding Bucky as tightly as a lifeline with Bucky clinging to him just as strong, but the moment was already passing and Steve was aware of Sam watching them with an observant eye.

He pulled away too quickly for his own liking, and Bucky dropped his arms away as soon as Steve sat up straight. They didn’t make eye contact.

“Feel better?” Sam asked, and he was looking at Steve.

Bucky was still the first to answer, “Yes.”

Steve nodded, feeling mute.

“So why have you been holding back?” Sam asked.

Steve took a deep breath, and turned to face Bucky. It looked like they were both getting a session with Sam today, “I’m afraid of pressuring you into anything you don’t want to do—or scaring you. I don’t always know what’s going on in your head, or what you’ve been through, but I want you to know you’re safe.”

Bucky was actually staring at him now, as if in shock.

“You’re not…,” Bucky fumbled at finding words, “I don’t want to be any more trouble than I already am.”

The breath left Steve in a rush, “You’re not trouble!”

“I’m not like normal people!” Bucky shouted suddenly, “I’m not easy to live with. I don’t talk, I don’t like being around people I don’t even like being around _myself_ most of the time. I don’t know who I am and I get stuck in memories that would make you hate me if you knew about them!”

Sam put out an arm to cut in before Steve could reply, “Bucky you know that’s not true. Me, Steve and Natasha all worked hard to find you and bring you home. Steve more than anyone was determined to bring you home. He wants you here, okay? It’s a long road to recovery, and you’re doing great.”

“I want you here,” Steve said softly, “I have an idea of some of the things you were forced to do. And it only makes me happier to have you here.”

Bucky’s shoulders shook slightly, and the corner of his mouth—his tell—was twitching down. He mumbled something as he turned away, not wanting to handle the emotion that must have been welling up inside of him.

“Words,” Sam reminded, “this is a sharing moment.”

“The skirt,” Bucky said, turning back to face them. He’d braced his shoulders and put on a brave face, “you don’t like it. You’d like me better if I didn’t wear it. If I’d never said I wanted it. You don’t come near me when I wear it.”

The rush of anger was an emotion Steve was not expecting. It caught him off guard and he had to sit back to calm himself,

“I don’t like it? I don’t understand it!” he didn’t mean to shout and bit his lip to calm down, and continued in a calmer voice, “sorry—it’s true, I don’t understand why you want it or why you wear it. But that doesn’t mean I don’t like it—it makes you _happy_. That’s all I care about it, honestly! If I didn’t like it then I wouldn’t have spent time today to help you mend it. You’ve honestly seemed better since getting it, and I just don’t want to force you into anything. I want you to initiate things so I know that you actually want it. It’s killing me not to reach out and touch you when you look like you’re hurting. Honestly, Buck, you’re my best friend. I’ll be with you through anything.”

Bucky nodded quickly, but the fact that he didn’t speak meant he was surprised by Steve’s answer.

“So Steve holds back—that’s out in the open. And the skirt is _not_ an issue and after this I’m going to show y’all how to shop online. Bucky, what’s your side of the hugging dry spell?” Steve had never been so grateful for Sam’s presence. Without him here they probably would have never had this talk, or at worst they would have, and it would have ended with both Steve and Bucky yelling and nothing figured out.

Bucky made a face like he didn’t want to talk anymore.

“Go on,” Sam said, “it’s a safe space, promise. No one’s going to get mad at you.” He finished with a quick glance at Steve, silently telling him to control himself.

“I… I don’t know if I want to be touched all the time,” Bucky said, “I don’t like strangers touching me. I… that hug was nice. But does that mean we do that every day? Or all the time? I don’t know if I can do that. There are times when I don’t want to be touched and others when it’s okay. Touching people isn’t something I think about, I guess. And I don’t want to come off as overbearing.”

“You won’t,” Steve assured him.

“How about this—we start asking for things we want,” Sam proposed, “Steve, you want to hug him, you gotta ask? No one’s gonna get touched unless they want to be?”

Steve nodded quickly. Bucky a moment later.

“Guys,” Sam said warningly, “this means you’re actually going to have to tell each other what’s going on in your head. I’m establishing this apartment as an ultra-communicative area. If you think about something, or feel something, no matter how silly it is you have to say it. And you have to listen to each other okay? No more guessing what each other is thinking because you’re both awful at that.”

Steve and Bucky nodded, at the same time, and Steve smiled.

“Also, another rule, Bucky you need to talk more. I get that you don’t want to say much, and that’s cool, but at least talk to me and Steve. I mean, you’re living with this dude and this is the most I’ve seen you talk to him _ever_ ,” Sam said, “if I were in Steve’s place I’d think you didn’t like me.”

Bucky nodded, caught himself and looked at Steve, “Sorry,” he licked his lips, “are we done?”

Sam shrugged, “You guys got anything else to add?”

Steve shook his head.

Bucky sat up straighter, “This shopping online thing? I can get more skirts? I want one in green.”

“We will get you all the colours of the freaking rainbow,” Sam said, “where’s your laptop?”

“Living room,” Steve said, “you go. I’ll take care of the dishes.”

Bucky’s hand on his shoulder caught Steve off guard and as he turned to look at him Bucky pulled his hand back like he’d been burned, “Sorry, can I?” he asked.

Steve laughed, “How about this—for me, it’s open invitation. I’ll let you know the times I _don’t_ want to be touched, but otherwise it’s always a yes.”

Bucky nodded, and reached out to touch Steve’s shoulder again, “Okay,” and in all seriousness he said, “thank you for dinner.”

 

When Sam left, Steve caught him at the door and pulled him into a tight hug.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

Sam pulled back, “Anytime man. But remember—talking is the most important thing.”

“We’ll have to have dinner more often,” Steve remarked.

“Only if that brownie thing is a staple too,” Sam told him, “I’ll see you in the morning?”

“If you’re ready to run,” Steve laughed.

Sam rolled his eyes and walked away like he was offended, “Later!” he called.

 

Bucky was still sitting on the couch with the computer when Steve returned with their nightly cups of tea. He was scrolling through something, and smiling in the light of the laptop.

Steve set both cups on the coffee table, “What’s got you smiling?”

“There’s so much,” Bucky remarked, tilting the screen so Steve could see. Steve sat down beside him, a lot closer than he normally allowed himself. Their sides were pressed together and Bucky didn’t seem to mind.

The screen was full of pictures of various, bright skirts and dresses.

“Did you get any?” Steve asked. The array of colours was almost blinding to him.

Bucky nodded, “A few—but there’s so much to look at,” he closed the laptop suddenly, leaving both of them blinking in the dim light, “it’s hard to wrap my mind around the idea that I can just click and it’ll show up. But this thing gives me a headache if I use it for too long.”

It was unbelievable how much Bucky was talking tonight, and Steve could listen to him ramble about anything as long as it kept the smile on his face.

Steve hummed in agreement. He wasn’t very fond of computers and how obsessed people were with them nowadays. The leaps in development plus the amount of information available was astounding—but it just seemed like so much work to track any truth down.

“Is there any chocolate left?” Bucky asked.

“If you lick the container,” Steve admitted.

Bucky frowned, “I’m going to buy some more tomorrow.”

Steve was too absorbed with how warm Bucky was at his side, just completely overjoyed to be this close and not be afraid of hurting his friend. He managed to say, “I don’t think I have anything to do in the morning. I’ll ask Sam where he got it and we can go after my run.”

Bucky hesitated, “Actually… I’m going to go with Sam. I… you were right,” he sighed, “it was good to talk to Sam. I wanted to talk to him more—alone— if that’s okay?”

Steve crushed down his initial wave of guilt—of not being good enough to take care of Bucky himself, and focused instead on the excitement that Bucky was making contact outside of him and working towards getting better, “That sounds great,” Steve said, “plus I’ll finally get some alone time.”

He grinned, showing it as a joke. Bucky laughed quietly.

Steve held up his hand, wanting to pull Bucky into a quick hug.

“Is this okay?” he asked.

Bucky looked unsure and leaned back. Steve shifted quickly so he was no longer pressed against Bucky.

“I’m sorry I pushed too much tonight,” Steve said quickly.

Bucky shook his head, “No, sorry. It’s… touch isn’t something I think about. Like, it doesn’t occur to me that you want contact. I… I like it when you touch me. But then sometimes it’s too much. It’s not you—it’s anyone.”

It was a nice way to end his explanation, though Steve knew that he was pretty much the only person Bucky interacted with at all.

“Okay,” Steve said, “we’ll communicate. I’ll ask—I’ll do my best to ask every time. And you have to tell me if I ever overstep, okay? I don’t ever want to make you feel uncomfortable. I want you to feel safe here.”

Bucky nodded, and smiled almost shyly, “This is really dramatic, isn’t it. I would have made a joke about it. In the past.”

Steve leaned back on the couch, “You probably would have hit me when Sam asked us to hug it out.”

Bucky grew serious, brow furrowing, “I wouldn’t hit you for that. I really liked that hug.”

“I know,” Steve couldn’t help but grin around the warmth spreading in his chest from Bucky’s words, “I did too. I also like how talkative you’ve been today.”

Bucky copied Steve’s pose, leaning back into the couch. The skirt shifted and stretched between his spread legs, and Steve was thankful Bucky was going to be getting some new ones because he heard some of the stitches he made snap, “Sam was right. I spend a lot of time in my head. And… not talking is what caused you to feel bad. I don’t like that.”

“You don’t make me feel bad,” Steve said quickly, and Bucky gave him a _look_ , so Steve relented, “okay, yeah. You hovering around like a shadow hurt. It’s just nice to know you’re actually here, you know?”

“Today’s actually a good day,” Bucky said, “I can’t promise I’ll always be good about talking. Or about getting outside of my own head. But I’ll try.”

Steve nodded, and held out a hand as an open invitation, “I’m glad to hear that. And same here.”

Bucky reached out tentatively, clasping his hand in Steve’s as he seemed to come to a decision. He jumped forwards, half standing, and hugged Steve tightly, pressing his face into Steve’s shoulder again.

Shock, more than anything, kept Steve from moving his one free hand to return the gesture, but Bucky was pulling away quickly, although he didn’t let go of Steve’s hand just yet.

“Thanks for… everything,” Bucky said, “I mean it. As awful as I must be sometimes, I… I don’t think I can ever repay you for everything you’ve done for me. And,” he lifted the skirt slightly in a bad imitation of a curtsey, “thanks for this. For buying it and for, you know, everything you did today.”

Steve swallowed around the lump in his throat, “Yeah, god, anytime. Anything.”

Bucky squeezed his hand, and then let go, “I’m exhausted,” he admitted, “so I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Goodnight,” Steve remembered to say as Bucky headed for his room.

Steve stayed in the living room while he listened to Bucky brush his teeth and then close his door when he was settling in. He was surprisingly tired himself—emotional toll of the day—but didn’t want to sleep in case he actually woke up and the whole day had been a dream. Eventually he forced himself to his feet, feeling surprisingly unsteady as he walked down the hall to the bathroom. He went through the same motions, brushing his teeth, washing his face and using the toilet before heading to his bedroom to change and collapse into bed.

Sam was an absolute miracle worker. Steve already thought the man was incredible, but today had just proved how incredible he was. For the first time in weeks Steve didn’t feel like he was sleeping on one side of a divide, and instead he could feel Bucky’s presence in the apartment.

Good or bad, today had been a huge step in the right direction. There were always going to be difficulties—Steve would have been suspicious if everything had gone well—but he went to sleep feeling like he’d done good today. He knew how to help Bucky more.

It would have been better to have Bucky in his bed, to be able to hold him close while he slept and to wake up to a warm companion. Steve stretched out, filling all of the empty places in his bed. With his eyes closed he listened to his own heartbeat and remembered how wonderful it had been to have his arms around Bucky in the kitchen earlier, and how incredible it was that he even had his best friend sleeping just across the hall from him.

Steve was a lucky man. He really couldn’t ask for more.  

 

 

 


End file.
